A Price to Pay for Everything

by Kameisha Jenkins

  iv

  Dynasty Publishing Inc

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  © Copyright © Kameisha L. Jenkins, 2009 All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters are not intended to depict any real persons, past or present. Any resemblance to persons, living or deceased, are coincidental and the material of this author’s imagination.

  Published by:

  Dynasty Inc. Publishing 5585 Central Avenue Charlotte, North Carolina 704.563.4520

  [978-1-59712-305-1]

  [Direct Graphics]

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated in memory of my beloved mother, Arizona Elizabeth Jenkins. A Dream deferred.

  This book is also lovingly dedicated to my son, Myles Langston Jenkins. A Dream fulfilled.

  “Son, life for me aint’ been no crystal stair…”

  -Mother to Son by Langston Hughes To all of the family, friends, professionals and supporters of this effort, thank you for your encouragement. Thank you James for us when I needed us. Thanks Chevonie and George for being true friends.

  To my brothers – Anthony Jenkins, Germaine Jenkins, and Tevan Green – Thank you for knowing that I could do this when I didn’t. To my aunties (all twelve of you)- thanks for lending me the wisdom that only your lives could offer. I was paying attention when you were trying to teach me to cook, sew, pay bills, start businesses, date men, and be independent women and fabulous mothers…in the process, I learned how to make a mean pot of collard greens with stilettos on.

  To my army of first cousins – Can I hold twenty dollars? Thanks for the love.

  Daddy – Benjamin “Old School” Jenkins, jr. – Thank you for showing me that honesty is sometimes unapologetic.

  To God, thank you. None of this is possible without you. Period. vi

  Chapter 1 Ilene

  “Put it through again, your damned machine must be broken, because I know that this card works.”

  Ilene Campbell seethed as she insisted that the cashier at Lord& Taylor was not educated enough to handle a simple transaction that required arithmetic. But then again, she thought and uttered under her breath, “what can you expect for minimum wage?”

  “Maam, I am sorry but your card is declined. Would you like to pay with cash?” The friendly sales clerk replied, trying to make the best of an awkward situation.

  Clearly annoyed with the pert cashier’s assumption that she had only one charge card at her disposal, Ilene felt the anger rushing through her reddened skin that now defied it’s creamy unblemished appearance and angrily snatched the card from her.

  “You know what? I want to see your manager.” Ilene decided to teach the woman that she instantly decided was a ‘hood rat’ a timely lesson. The clerk was accustomed to the response and didn’t hesitate to respond.

  “Well, she’s just going to tell you what I just told you…the card is declined, and our machine is working fine.”

  Blue eye shadow covered eyes rolled . The cashier decided that she would wage a battle with yet another socialite housewife with nothing better to do than spend hubby’s money and bitch with the hired help.

  “Keisha, is it?” Ilene paused for dramatic effect. It was her way.

  “La-Keisha”, the now irritated sales clerk pointed at her name badge and corrected Ilene at once.

  Ilene instinctively stretched her eyes to suggest that she could care less about what the woman in front of her chose to call herself. She woor mini what ridiculous nick name that woman was called in her ‘hood and settled on “Ke-Lo”. She did little to hide her growing disgust for the marginally educated sales clerk who she was certain was enrolled in a welfare to workfare program, judging from her cherry red hair color and tattoo of “Devontae and Dejanee 4 Life” on her wrist. Ilene regretted that she too, was a black woman. What a burden to be forced to deal with “those kind of people”.

  “Um, whatever. Shakeisha. You, my dear, are a bit rude and quite honestly, I don’t care for your attitude. So pick up that little black phone, if that’s not too hard for you, and call your manager before I become any angrier than I already am. Thanks.” Ilene turned away from the woman to let her know that it was not up for discussion.

  With that, La-Keisha rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth simultaneously as she grabbed the receiver and dutifully summoned her department manager, who she was sure would tell this Vanessa Williams wannabe where to go and how to get there.

  Ilene eyed her suspiciously and awaited any secret code that might alert the phantom manager that she was a pretentious black woman with bad credit trying to pass off a maxed out platinum card. The truth of her thoughts stung her.

  The exchange captured the interest of a few otherwise

  CHAPTER 1 occupied shoppers who magically discovered a new interest in woman’s active wear. Careful of this, Ilene decided that she would play the role of the intelligent and sophisticated shopper who simply could not understand why she had received such sub-par customer service from a seemingly disgruntled employee. The rich bitch role had not been working for her this week.

  Ilene began to mentally prepare herself for the ensuing discussion. She cringed as she realized that the department manager was the approaching black woman in the red power suit with far too much gold ornamentation on it for it to be considered tasteful. “They just don’t get it. Broke bitches are so funny.” Ilene thought to herself as she plastered on a plastic smile. She instinctively adjusted her eyes to the woman’s shoes that were once a beautiful pair of crimson Via Spiga pumps. Ilene was sure that the red suited woman used her discount at the high-end department store to get them. Through a teethy grin, the manager spoke.

  “Good morning maam, how can I help you”? Obviously La-Keisha had not had the opportunity to prep her about the customer from hell. Ilene took advantage of her good fortune and played the victimized but loyal customer to a tee. She dropped a few names of the store’s administrators that she had only heard in passing in her cosmetic surgeon’s office and waited for the results.

  Almost as if she were cued, the department manager overrode the declined card and processed the four hundred and thirty five dollar purchase of the burnt orange cashmere scarf. The department manager then gave Ilene her business card and thanked her for her loyalty.

  Ilene thought it a bit brash of the enterprising department manager, but took the card and faked a genuine interest in the woman’s introduction.

  As she exited the store, Ilene labored a sigh that she had not been exposed. Again, she cursed her husband for being financially inept to support her lifestyle. She hated the fact that she married an educator with dreams who participated in human rights marches and not an affluent and greedy businessman. She hated that she had to practically prostitute herself to the dealer for 7 months for the Mercedes CL 630 that she drove. Most of all, she hated that her husband did not recognize that she needed what he could not ever give her…comfort.

  The chill of the morning breeze in Atlanta brought Ilene back to reality as she entered her car. The black leather seats began to warm as soon as she put the key into her ignition.

  When she was sure it was safe, Ilene removed the cargo that she unlawfully concealed in her well- declined nes New York wool pantsuit. “Fabulous”, she mumbled as she inspected her bounty: 2 more cashmere scarves, one Donna Karan knit sweater, and a Prada handbag that she had to h
ave. Reveling in the thrill of victory, Ilene’s smile warmed as she recalled the look on the sales clerk face as she walked away with her purchase. “Oh well, those bastards have insurance, they’ll just write the shit off.” Ilene had stopped feeling guilty about her brand of shopping years earlier when one of the clerks refused to show her a private collection by Louis Vutton for preferred customers only. As she pulled out of the Phipps Plaza parking lot, she decided that she would have brunch in pricey Buckhead. The fact that she did not have a penny to her name did not appear to deter her as she sped down Lenox Avenue wondering what the rest of her day would bring.

  Chapter 2 Natalie

  “I am so over this shit.” Natalie mumbled to herself for the tenth time in less than an hour. As Natalie Logan lounged on a chaise that was far too uncomfortable to be called therapeutic, she found herself belaboring the recent events in her life brought her to Dr. Juanita Reade’s non-descript Houston office to “talk”.

  Certainly, she understood that as a teenager she was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder, but that was practically 14 years ago. Her mother regularly reminded her that her issues were only the figment of an overworked imagination. Since then, she managed to graduate from Yale with honors, obtain her MBA from Cornell in just under two years, negotiate a six figure salary with one of the largest media relations firm in the country, and maintain her trademark flawless chocolate skin and size 8 figure. Her choice to tell people that she wore an eight instead of a more honest size ten had permeated her own psyche.

  While tapping the wand on her exhausted Palm Pilot, she added and subtracted the names of men who readily rearranged their schedules on her whim. No crazy chick could pull this shit off. In her mind, she was more than okay.

  The sound of Dr. Reade’s overly therapeutic voice was beginning to annoy her. For only $150 an hour, she was paying a psychologist to ask her the same questions she had asked herself for free. She readied herself for another useless session.

  “So, Natalie, would you say that you’re still angry?” Dr. Reade asked her as if she already knew the answer. Choosing to save herself the cost of another session, Natalie opted for a strategic maneuver.

  “Yep. I AM angry and I blame myself. There’s no one to blame but myself. Maybe that’s why I treat people so horribly. I don’t like myself.” Natalie chuckled quietly as she tossed her shoulder length mane of sable and auburn Number 24. She had the receipt and paid thirteen hundred dollars to have it sewn in, so technically, it was HER hair.

  Satisfied with her well-rehearsed answer to Dr. Reade’s question, Natalie began to mentally dismiss the soft-spoken therapist. She reasoned that the doctor’s jealousy was because Natalie was prettier, and most importantly, stronger than her. Her mind told her that even though Juanita Reade had degrees from Georgetown and Meharry, she spent her days listening to the problems other people had because her life was incessantly boring. She was married to a white man, Natalie reasoned, how much more boring and pathetic could you get? Not even a black man could stand her lame ass.

  Recognizing the detached look on Natalie’s face, Dr. Reade decided that she had her full of this patient for one hour.

  “Why don’t we just pick up here next week, unless you had anything else you wanted to add?” Dr. Reade asked while looking over the rim of her reading glasses.

  Feigning a smile, Natalie rose from the chaise, grabbed her black Gucci clutch and slipped her oversized Dior shades onto her petite chocolate face.

  A PRICE TO PAY FOR EVERYTHING “No, I think we did well this week and I actually think I might fore go an appointment next week. These sessions have been okay, but they are a bit costly and I wonder how long I can continue to afford them.” She lied.

  Perplexed that her patient was willing to spend more on her purse than her mental health, Dr. Read felt the need to communicate the importance of more therapy.

  “I am disappointed to hear that Natalie, but to be completely honest with you, given your psychosis, I don’t feel you can afford not to continue.”

  At that Natalie decided that Dr. Reade had added the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back and would no longer have her as a patient. She retreated to the saccharine smile she reserved for those she secretly hated. Perfectly aligned and whitened teeth, the best her money could buy. Her expensive shades concealed her look of disgust. A worthy $500 investment.

  “Well, I didn’t realize that we needed this much time, but you’re the doctor. I’ll see you the same time next week”.

  Disbelief clouded the doctor’s mind, but years in the mental health field afforded her a face void of sincere expressions.

  “Very good, and have a good weekend Natalie.”

  As Natalie walked out of the office, she made a mental note to have her secretary screen all of her calls next week. The last thing she needed was a money hungry shrink hunting her down to add to her aggravation.

  She boarded the elevator and pressed one as she descended to freedom. She glanced at her Breitling and realized that she would just make it to her massage and aromatherapy session at the Mandarin Spa. She released a breath of relief and reclined on the back of the elevator’s shiny walls.

  Her eyes were closed when she heard words that made her question reality. She simply could not believe her ears.

  “You stupid bitch, that doctor doesn’t give a damn if you don’t come next week. You’re the nut, not her. I bet you think your ass is smart now don’t you?”

  Natalie swirled around frantically so that she could identify and berate the idiot that dared to address her that way. Didn’t they know she had an MBA? Surely they knew she was the youngest executive in her company and the only black woman who ever graced that position. She was going to tell them…

  The elevator was empty.

  Tears flowed down her face. The voices in her head were getting louder. Natalie looked around suspiciously as she exited the elevator and decided that she would have her secretary confirm the appointment with Dr. Reade for next week as she had for the last six years.

  Chapter 3 Marc

  Friday mornings always excited Marc. Almost mechanically, he jumped out of his king sized four-poster bed and turned the Bang Olufsen stereo system to the Steve Harvey Morning Show. He giggled at the host’s hilarious stint as a lounge singer while he sifted through his wardrobe of business suit’s to find the khaki chinos that he always wore on casual Friday. After grabbing the slacks he scuttled over the hardwoods floors of his brownstone and poked his head out of the window to gauge the temperature.

  “Dayumm!” The chill in the air bit Marc and instantly his café au lait skin grew flush with redness. He hated when that happened. It reminded him of how nature had been cruel to him by making him the spitting image of his mother. No doubt, she was a beautiful woman, but he always loved the way people automatically respected his father for his smooth dark skin that likened him to Richard Roundtree in Shaft.

  Just as he made a dash for the shower, he heard his cell phone ring. His better judgment told him not to answer as he allowed his caller to speak only to his recorded voice. He needed to start the day right, even if it would inevitably end wrong.

  When the hot water hit his skin, he jolted, stunned from its intensity. He adjusted as he exhaled deeply and planned his day of boring project meetings and fruitless interviews of contractors willing to sell their first borno be in his call-on file.

  He envisioned ways he could continue to mask his distaste for his administrative assistant, Dora. Certainly, she was as nice as any admin could be that was assigned to him, but she seemed to have a penchant for staring at him a little too long. He wondered if she admired that he was a young black executive doing his thing or if it pissed her off that she was 24 years his senior, making 4 times less than he did. Either way, he reasoned, she was going to respect him and he often alluded to the fact that she was as disposable as the green contact lenses she wore.

  Metro was extra crowded for a Friday morning, but then again, it was the wee
kend of Howard’s homecoming and that always promised to be tedious time for the city. As Marc searched for a seat, he eyed all of the potential pickpockets and hustlers. Though he loved the chocolate city, he wasn’t idealistic about the element he surrounded himself with in his urban utopia.

  He found a seat next a sister who seemed enthralled with the conversation that she was having with her cell phone. He chose to ignore the annoyance that he had with such a pretentious activity and said hello as he slid his 6’3 frame into the seat made for a man at least six inches shorter.

  “ Oh hey. How ya doin?” Cell phone woman mouthed urgently as if she had been disturbed from a briefing from the president.

  The scent of White Diamonds overdone choked him as in inhaled his neighbor’s undeniable presence. He wondered what odors she was trying to mask by spraying so much perfume. He wondered why she didn’t notice that she had overdone it, or if in her lineal thought pattern, she sprayed enough to last all day. He wanted to give her the number of his friend at Prescriptives in

  A PRICE TO PAY FOR EVERYTHING

  Georgetown who could explain to her that a woman’s fragrance should be subtle and inviting, not loud and offensive. As she continued to converse with the phone, unaware of his critical analysis of her, he wondered why her mother had not explained this to her.

  Remembering that he had an early meeting with his new clients, a black owned architectural firm out of Atlanta, he reached for his attaché for his notes and the project management proposal.

  As he adjusted his seating to get to his Coach attaché, he noticed the chipped and broken by product of what used to be a French manicure holding the cell phone. Some of these chicks just don’t know. He made a mental note to make sure that all of the women he dealt with “knew”.

  “Foggy Bottom”, the recorded announcement freed him from his torment as he collected his things to exit the train. He could finally stop holding his breath. He hurriedly cleared the aisle to get to the doors and just avoided making any eye contact with his former sitting buddy. Just that quickly, he had formed an opinion of this woman whom he had never met prior to their recent encounter.